Random Acts of Karaoke…..

     I may be the only person on the planet who does not require getting smashed to sing in front of an audience of complete strangers. Maybe this is due to the fact that they are strangers. That are drunk themselves. And probably won’t remember. This has been authenticated by the amount of applause I’ve received, as I make my way around the South Florida karaoke circuit, singing a tone-deaf, yet high-energy version of Darling Nikki.

     Mostly, I think it’s due to the fact that I have closet ambitions of being an entertainer. Now, I know I cannot sing to save my life, but I have killer dance moves and an ambition to make a fool of myself. I have also daydreamed about countless scenarios, which include the following:

•  Making it to the last round of American Idol, belting out “Don’t Call me When You’re Sober”, which is when people finally realize I can actually sing (this fantasy also includes Eminem being my “Michelle’s Husband” camera-pan away from the stage)
• Serenading my crush with Beyonce’s “Flaws & All”, causing him to fall madly in love with me
• Auditioning to replace the drummer from Linkin Park, with my sweet rendition of Faint, all the while singing in my best Chester-voice

     The literal Japanese translation of the word karaoke is “empty orchestra”. Which makes a lot of sense, as most performances border on an empty sense of chaos. You oftentimes look up at the stage and wonder, “What the hell is this guy doing up there?”

     I remember the first time I graced a karaoke stage. It was actually just the front of the dining area of a small cafe, Sergeant Pepper’s, that offered little more than sandwiches, wine, beer, and really bad singing from 9pm-1am on Friday nights. As I watched some woman yodel a Jewel song, I thought,  “I would never get up there and embarrass myself like that!”  I just knew that everyone that went up there was drunk, until a woman decided to bring the mood down by signing “God Bless the Child” (badly, I might add). Surely, she wouldn’t drink and singing a gospel song. Wait…. who sings a gospel song at karaoke?!

     Then I was propositioned with an offer I couldn’t refuse. My roommate bet me $5 to go up and sing my favorite Prince song. At the time, gas was about $4.99 a gallon, so I was definitely intrigued. And since I usually ride pretty close to empty on a regular basis, I felt I couldn’t pass up this offer- drunk or not. So I put my name in and waited. One by one, people went to the front of the room and embarrassed themselves. As it neared closing time, I started to feel pretty sure that my name wasn’t going to get called, and I was relieved.

     “Up next, let’s hear it for… MIIIIICCCHEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLE!”  That’s how the girl said my name, literally. I cursed under my breath, as my friends started screaming and clapping. As the words ” I knew a girl named Nikki/I guess you could say she was a sex fiend” lit up the karaoke screen, all my inhibitions disappeared. For some reason, so did the people sitting in front of me, enjoying the libations that flowed from a restricted liquor-license establishment. I wasn’t in Downtown Dadeland anymore. I was on stage, at First Ave, performing with the Revolution, and singing/yelling at Apollonia.

I knew a girl named Nikki/ I guess you could say she was a sex fiend
I met her in a hotel lobby/ Masturbating with a magazine
She said, “How’d you like to waste some time?”/ And I could not resist when I saw little Nikki grind

She took me to her castle/ And I just couldn’t believe my eyes
She had so many devices/ Everything that money could buy
She said, “Sign your name on the dotted line”/ The lights went out and Nikki started to grind
Nikki

The castle started spinning/ Or maybe it was my brain
I can’t tell you what she did to me/ But me body will never be the same

Her lovin’ will kick your behind/ Oh, she’ll show you no mercy
But she’ll sho’nuff, sho’nuff/ Show you how to grind
Darling Nikki, oh

Woke up the next morning/ Nikki wasn’t there
I looked all over and all I found/ Was a phone number on the stairs
It said, “Thank you for a funky time/ Call me up whenever you want to grind”
Oh, Nikki, oh

Oh come back Nikki, come back/ Your dirty little Prince wanna grind, grind, grind, grind
Grind, grind, grind, grind, grind!
(BTW, this is the best part, as you just get to scream incoherently, but I decided not to hump the ground)

     I walked away from this performance with a sense of pride, and one gallon of gas. I felt like I could take over the world. I didn’t want to stop!  My Interracial Posse and I (will delve into this phenomenon in a future post) continued to sing our worries away at this establishment, until its demise a year later. I continued on to other watering holes with awful singing, and I certainly recommend the following:

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• Seven Seas- located on Bird Road, on the way to the airport, this is a place you wouldn’t even know was there, if you flew by. The size of a small studio apartment, its decor suggest a shabby boat dock, but the presence of a rabid dog in the adjoining storefront suggest a ghetto dog fight den. There’s barely room for the bar and a few tables, but it’s an awesome place with no pretentious air. I’ve shredded “Dirty Diana” here, and I keep coming back
• Any Discovery Cruise, 1-day excursion- this will prove especially scintillating, if you go during the week in the winter, where the guests are scant, along with the lame activities offered. You will definitely never see these people again, and the fun factor is upped a notch by the fact that you are sequestered in a gold-trimmed ballroom on the sea, watching 15 year-olds belt out Beyonce lyrics. As the cruise ships’ technology is somewhat behind the times, you will also enjoy the dated graphics on the karaoke screen. I have lovely memories of my 28th birthday, as I sang No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak”, with a backdrop of a 1985 bikini model, rolling around in the grass with big hair and a lion, relaxing in the desert.
• Lastly, the place where I dwell the most- Little Hoolie’s. Located in South Miami, this place has become a permanent home of mine, mostly because “Karaoke Wednesdays” also coincide with “Ladies Night”.  Free shots of well-vodka fuel a most exciting experience for myself, along with my friends. This is the stage I have graced the most, regurgitating my Nikki song, Linkin Park, Evanessence, and most recently, “Me So Horny” (not my choice). The laughs are bountiful, as well as the plethora of prime Cougars, who enjoy dancing in front of the stage.

     I imagine I will always have a spot in my heart for karaoke. It is my only way to realize my dream of being semi-famous. So if you ever want to have a good laugh on a Wednesday night, turn on SW 136th street, off US1, and head on over to Little Hoolies. You might catch me screaming out “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor”, but most likely it will some 65-year old woman, doing her best to murder “Black Velvet”.

-Keep It A Hot Mess

 

(Next Week: Will I say ‘Yes to the Dress?’ Month 3 is coming….)

    

My 183 is Not You 183: Month 2

    WEIGHT: 404 LBS   PUSH UP COUNT: 1!

 Yeah, I know it’s the end of the month and I’ll soon be writing about Month 3 in, like a week, but I was busy trying to weigh myself on about 30 different scales across South Florida to see if they were lying. And no, they were not. I gained 4 freakin’ lbs. I don’t know where it went, because I am always bombarded with comments saying that I look like I lost weight, even though I look like I’m about to birth a small kangaroo. It is said that muscle weighs more than fat, which probably explains why I keep getting compliments and have been able to increase my push-up ratio by 100%.

     All in all, this month was a mess. I tried to go on a roll where I stopped eating fast food and cooking everything, then realized I don’t know how to cook, and that lasted about 10 days. The thing is, when you stopped eating that crap, you don’t miss it and it really isn’t that difficult. But if you have a little bit, for some people, it’s impossible to stop. There’s a snowball effect. Except it should be called the “French Fry Effect”. You start with a small fry, which leads to a cheeseburger, which then leads to ribs. Next thing you know you’re scarfing down a Big Mac while driving 45 miles per hour down US1, so you won’t have any evidence once you get home, but you forget the sesame seeds that have found their way into your bra (unfortunately, this happens to me ALL THE TIME). Oh, and you smell like beef tallow (from previous posts, this is the delicious liquid crack they make the McDonald’s french fries with so the mere whiff of them makes you slightly more aroused than getting to second base). It is for these above reasonS that I am going to expose the ugly truth behind fast food and its semblance to crack. It may be considered an extreme view to most, but there are at least 3 people out in this world that have done all the things I am going to describe to you, and all are very similar to having a drug problem. Again, if you are offended by my hilarious comparison, screw you. Go read FoxNews.com. It also might appear that I would be slightly embarrassed to reveal the secretive actions of an undercover fast-food addict. Then I remember that I will be smoking hot by Halloween and that’ll definitely make up for the following confessions.

     They say that the first high is the strongest. Addicts will continue with their addiction trying to replicate that first awesome high. For fast food addicts, every time you eat this stuff, it’s better than the time before. Today’s Whopper somehow tastes better then yesterday’s Quarter Pounder. And like a drug addict, you are acutely aware that your addiction is detrimental to your health and well-being- it may even result in killing you. But that thought never crosses your mind while you’re stuffing your face with french fries. This concept of comparing a serious drug addiction with eating Taco Bell may still be a bit harsh. Some people may even think that making this comparison is asinine, and not even funny. But it’s very true. And very real. More importantly, it’s quite hilarious. Because so is crack addiction. Because as my girl Whitney says, “Crack is Whack!” I can say this because my name is Michelle, and I am a fast food addict.

“HI, MICHELLE”.

Don’t believe that this phenomenom is real? Peep the following behavior:

Going up to a drive-thru, having the guy ask me what I wanted to order, then psyching myself out of eating and speeding off like I was in the Fast and the Furious crew

• Secretly eating in my car, so when I go into my apartment, my roommate doesn’t know I was eating a Value Meal. And also being so paranoid that she might smell the french fry grease on my clothes, that I’ve chewed on 20 pieces of gum, as if it is somehow going to magically turn into perfume
• Lied to coworkers and told them I went to Subway for lunch, when I really went to Five Guys. And not even realizing that they already figured it out because I have a red-and-white checkered to-go cup in my hand
• Getting pissed in the drive-thru lane because they are taking so long to give me my food. Tapping my foot on the floor board, and cursing the guy who says I have to park up to the front because a fresh batch of fries are coming out.  And like a fiend, eyeing the door and rejoicing when the fifteen year-old cashier comes out with a bag embossed with the angelic Golden Arches. And as the bag is whisked into my car, eating the food so fast, that I almost choked. You know you’ve done that! That feeling that you have a rock in your throat is the worst!

 

     So my friends, I have a problem. And I probably need help. So if you see me heading to a drive-thru, cut me off. Or if I’m trying to dip some fries into a Frosty, smack them out of my hand. I might be really mad, but anyone who knows me knows I won’t fight back. But I also know that I’m going to kick the habit. Maybe I’ll even go cold-turkey tommorrow. Because I have a Kevin Hart show to go to in a few weeks, a guy to wow, and a dress resembling a triage bandage to wear.

Keep It A Hot Mess

(Next Week, a venture in to karaoke land…)